


Dear Gabriel

by dhspn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Divergent Timelines, Dreams and Nightmares, Flashbacks, Graphic Description of Corpses, Headcanon Exploration, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Self-Harm, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Mc76
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-26 03:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhspn/pseuds/dhspn
Summary: A terrible accident leaves Overwatch without a Strike Commander. Without a leader at the helm, what will become of the worldwide organization? Gabriel Reyes is forced to confront his feelings regarding Jack, Overwatch, and the world, all while trying to take down Talon. Rumors begin to circulate that Gabriel had something to do with the accident. Will a mysterious folder full of letters addressed to him reveal what happened to Jack? And what is up with the United Nations?





	1. The Fire

**Author's Note:**

> My first fan fiction.
> 
> I have never actually played the game, but I engrossed myself in the lore for months.  
> At the very least, this shall be an interesting experiment.
> 
>  
> 
> Smells like barbecue...

It was 3:12 in the morning, a time where no human would voluntarily _want_ to be awake, when no one without a good reason _should_ be awake.

The man was sitting at the desk. He had been for hours. The low lights in the room picked up the golden hue of his hair, his face sharp but slightly ragged. His large broad frame hunched ever so slightly under the weight of the previous day and a restless night. He only allowed himself this small slouch in private, the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He was otherwise not allowed to betray any weakness. His eyes, brilliant cerulean, were dull and rimmed with red. His gaze looking, but not fully, at the documents in front of him. His attention seemed to be divided between the forms at his hand and the newscaster being played, larger than life, on the semi-transparent screen on the wall. You would think being a savior of mankind would grant one a life full of jubilation and gratitude. Maybe even a little rest.

You would think. But no, saving the world meant that the yoke of mankind’s future had been placed squarely on his shoulders. A savior who had fought back against the robot omnic apocalypse when civilization was at its brink. His youthful brilliance at the time had inspired so many. His brightness even challenged the sun. He had sowed the seeds in the rubble, he was to make sure they grew to fruition. This also meant any failing, and weakness, any unmet expectation would be promptly slung back into his face like mud. It also meant pulling 48-hour days twice a week when he wasn’t busy meeting diplomats and leaders of the world.

The newscaster, a sickly looking Frenchman in a sharp suit, droned on from the holo-screen on the wall to his right. His voice, translated and repeated in real time, was the only thing disrupting the otherwise deafening silence in the man’s office. Betraying no emotion, no loyalty, nor surprise.

_“Massive flooding is still inundating the coastal regions of South East Asia as a second wave of typhoons make landfall. No word yet of casualties, but estimates put the number in the hundreds. While not entirely unprepared for these catastrophic storms, local officials have been quoted as saying they had underestimated their unusual ferocity. Had they had more support from the…”_

His mind automatically stopped listening, switching to focus on the forms at hand. He couldn’t control the weather (not that that stopped people from expecting that of him). Ultimately, though, the storms and their aftermath would have to be dealt with. Would the UN turn to him and his agents to aid in the relief efforts? Climate destabilization, another one of mankind’s messes to contend with. Killing robots was one thing, fixing the accumulated bad ecological habits from the last three or so centuries was another. Still, it was more likely than not he would have to deploy agents eventually. Which reminded him…

 _Need to approve funds to send EcoWatch Antarctica more supplies, soon!_ The man scribbled on a pad nestled among the flotsam of white paper and black ink. Controlled chaos, a bad habit. It was a mess, but it was his mess.

He took a cautious sip from his mug of coffee and finally looked, for real this time, at the form he had in hand. The relief effort in Australia. Ever since the end of the Crisis, the island nation had been struggling to gain the ground it had lost. A decade or so ago, bandits had unleashed a fusion bomb in the inner heart of the island in response to the government granting land to the humanoid robots, Omnics, as a token of peace. A token the human bandits hadn’t take too kindly to. Humanity could be so cruel, even to its own creations, even to itself. The resulting residual radiation made the island a hotbed for radiation sickness. The rise in cancer had been astounding. Despite technology that could literally suck radiation from the atmosphere, not all of it could be captured, and the effects would be felt for generations. While Sydney and Melbourne _(Ah, Melbourne, such a beautiful city, a real underappreciated gem, even if it was the capitol_ ) had rebounded from the Crisis fairly quickly. Brisbane still languished, the human toll from the radiation was stacking up, the local economy and subsequent recovery had been affected as a result. It was a simple humanitarian expedition, agents would oversee the recovery, no immediate danger from combatants. No, the possibility that this mission could result in casualties was minimal (not acting would probably be worse, even). How could the man not approve the funds and agents? He busied himself, scanning the document for any hidden pitfalls before gracing it with his signature. _Out you go_.

“ _Overwatch_ -”

The man’s neck makes an audible cracking sound as he jerks his attention to the holo-screen, dropping the forms slightly out of line with the rest of the outgoing stacks.

 _“-is facing heavy criticism from omnic groups after its involvement in the so called Uprising incident in London last year. While the situation had been quickly dealt with by the peacekeeping organization, pressure is growing as Omnic groups in the area demand the remains of the rebel group be released. Officials have only commented on the necessity of retaining the remains as a means of tracing the possible source of the disturbance. No word as to when, or if, the omnic remains will be returned to_ …”

That makes the third mention of Overwatch in the last hour. All three mentions negative. Despite the man’s efforts in the beginning, making great strides and progress rebuilding the world from the ashes, it was just too slow for the rest of the world. Haste, however, makes waste. Overwatch, in an attempt to keep up with the demands of the globe, was finally starting to slip up. The world was taking notice. It was their right, of course. But the events being reported on were usually only a third of the real story, the rest too confidential to disclose lest the world wanted to know every bloody detail. When the world takes notice, the UN lets him know…

He let out a long sigh, He’ll continue working for another hour before heading to bed. Will it be the couch again? He hadn’t seen his proper bed in over two days. He wondered whether was the risk of walking all the way to his quarters worth it. Usually he wouldn’t run into other agents this late….or was it early?

No, it was usually just the custodial staff finishing up their duties, the floors freshly swept (waxed and buffered on the weekends, _that’s usually exciting_ ), that and a few straggling agents coming off of a bender or making the walk of shame. He himself knew a few shortcuts and secret passages to avoid such encounters (really, they were just maintenance tunnels used by the supporting staff). He wouldn’t want to embarrass an agent by letting them be seen by himself, the Strike Commander, after all.

 His mind went back to his youth, the days he would sneak off during basic, share bunks with other recruits, and mess around (but never going too far). His own escapades had stopped a few years ago when Rey-

A soft but shrill tone filled the room. Red holo-windows opened up from his console projector. “Warning, Explosion Imminent”. He was usually the first to receive such warnings before making the decision alerting the rest of the facility. Lately these things had become a nuisance, false alarms. Sometimes it was wiser to treat particular matters discreetly.

“Athena, what’s going on?”

The artificial intelligence who ran the facility, always ready at a moment’s notice, promptly responded.

“Strike Commander, there seems to be a buildup of pressure in a gas main in one of the outlying store houses.”

“Where?”

“Weapons Cache WABA-2”. A holographic map popped up in front of the man, pinpointing the particular storehouse.

“That’s far… over a mile away, maybe more. Can you shut it off?”

“I’m afraid I cannot, Commander. I only have access to pressure readings, but not to the valve itself.”

 “Are there any available agents?”

“Only those in the facility at this time.”

Despite being the main base of Overwatch, the Swiss base was currently operating with a minimum of 200 agents.

“How long? How long until it-?”

“Explosion imminent in 13 minutes, 23 seconds.”

“Shit! Hold off alerting the base, at least for a little bit. If I can make it in time, I can, I-!”

The man jumped up, practically sprinting around his desk, scattering papers in the rush. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his blue long coat propped up on one of the chairs. _It might be cold…_ He made an attempt to grab the coat, only managing to knock it off the chair. He hesitated for a split second, deciding against the coat before dashing off. Better to not weigh himself down. He sprinted down the hall. The door automatically closing behind him.

** XX **

He had underestimated the distance. It took three minutes to run from his office and out of the facility (making sure not to disturb anyone who might be sleeping). It took him another seven minutes to cover the 2 miles between the main facility and the outlying stores on the other side of the base’s airstrip. Being a super soldier, a product of the American military’s Soldier Enhancement Program, had its perks. Still, a 3 and a half minute mile wasn’t his best time. _Old age finally creeping up on me_.

With as much financial support as Overwatch received, the base still operated on a shoestring budget. Agents were almost always coming and going, and couldn’t be wasted standing at a post all night long. Not this far away from the base at least. The automated security protocols and surveillance systems had been adequate for most situations in the past. It’s funny how it only takes one surprise for one’s defenses to become insufficient.

He stood before a rather large, but otherwise uninteresting building marked with WABA-2. The man, still huffing and puffing tried the door. It was locked. A manual lock with a bolt and chains, without any of the fancy technological flourishes, impeded the man from his goal. He began to kick. It took a few tries, but the chains finally started to give way. Had he not been in a hurry, he would have remembered he could have easily snapped the chain in half with his bare hands (another perk of being a super soldier). He finally breaks down the locked door and rushes in. The interior was packed with a variety of weaponry from ammo cases to reinforced tanks.

 “Athena,” He called out, hoping this building was also under her watchful eye. “Where?”

“Approximately 10 meters to your left, down two flights of stairs.”

He turned and makes a furious dash toward the stairway. He practically flew down the two flights, and almost ran smack dab into the damned pipe itself, the release valve jutting out like sore tooth. It was big and red with rust. It was groaning like a beast, angry at his intrusion. He had to-

Two minutes.

He struggled with the valve. Yes, even with his super soldier strength, he was no match for ungreased rusted metal that probably hadn’t been touched in over a decade. He had to-

!!!!

The last evidence that Jack Morrison, Strike Commander of Overwatch, had been alive would be security footage of his ascent down those concrete stairs into the bowels of the warehouse. Two minutes later, a fireball shoots up through the stairway, engulfing the cache and the footage is cut off, the cameras practically vaporized in the explosion.

It was 3:37 in the morning.

** XX **

“Warning, Explosion Imminent. Warning.”

A red haze filled the dark room as various windows popped up from the projector console on the other side of the room. Gabriel Reyes woke up but didn’t open his eyes. He could feel the tension return to his muscles after the previous day’s rigorous drills. He had _just_ fallen back asleep after making his usual midnight rounds around the base, checking on nothing in particular but easing his own nerves. All the same, he had enjoyed the peace with fewer people milling around. The remnants of whatever dream he was having quickly slipped away like water. _I was…happy… something about chess?_

He entertained the thought of waiting it out. Whatever this shit was could wait, he needed what little sleep he usually got. He couldn’t care less if fire was raining down from the sky. He had become good at sleeping through alarms. He had earned that right after a long career of military training, voluntary torture, and killing robots, hadn’t he?

_Another false alarm?_

There had been a lot of them recently. Usually involving possible intruders on the base that eventually turned out to be a flock of geese nesting on the roof, ( _damned ganzos_ ). This one was different, though. They’ve never had a warning about a possible explosion _._

_Huh…_

Like a kid asking to sleep a little longer, “Athena, the fuck?”

“Good morning, Commander Reyes. I apologize, but there is a threat on the base that needs to be addressed immediately. There is pressure building in a gas main located in Weapons Cache WABA-2. The explosion will occur in 7 minutes if it is not addressed immediately.”

Gabriel grumbled. He shifted in his bed, rubbing a rough hand over his face, partially to get the sleep out of his eyes, but mostly due to sheer frustration.

“And where is the Strike Commander, Mr. Sunshine Boy?”

“He is out.”

Out? He was just here! Gabriel had just seen Jack…two hours ago, pouring himself a cup of coffee in the shared lounge area (Jack, of course hadn’t seen him. The two had been dancing around each other, avoiding whatever fire that might flare if they met). Did something come up that needed his immediate presence? Fucker! He _would_ drop anything at any time just to jet across the globe if the UN stubbed its toes or needed its back scrubbed. He’s done it before.

“Damn him! Can you decrease pressure?”

“Unfortunately no, the gas main is part of the old facility. It was not renovated to be remotely adjusted. It will need to be manually adjusted to release pressure. Explosion imminent in 6 minutes.”

Gabriel could already hear commotion in the hall. If by chance someone was already on their way, _maybe_ this whole thing could be solved. Considering half the agents didn’t know the complete layout of the surrounding storage buildings and would be scrambling around like headless chickens even assisted, it was highly unlikely (and quite dangerous). It was almost tempting for Gabriel to just go back to sleep, to let the inevitable happen.

 _He’ll hold it against you for not acting, just like everything else_.

Gabriel darted out of bed at the thought. His bronze olive skin glistening with sweat as the lights automatically flicked on. His body completely exposed to no one in particular, a plethora of scars like a road map across his body rippled as he milled about. He dressed as quickly as he could, only putting on the essentials.

As he was hopping to and fro, he gave the situation more thought. Weapon cache WABA-2 only contained level one gear. Just some basic weaponry that a novice foot soldier would use, nothing major, nothing anybody would miss. Weapons were fairly easy to come by anyway (which was the problem in the world now). He would make an effort, though. He had to. Anything to appease Mr. Golden Boy. He and Jack had been on the rocks for a while, a few months (or was it already a half a year?). Nothing they couldn’t weather. Despite how the man pissed him off, how he kept fucking Gabriel over time and time again, he still loved the man. He knew inaction would only make the rift between them that much wider. Another, darker and colder thought crossed his mind as he was quickly tightening the laces of his boots.

Could it be related to Talon? The mysterious terrorist organization had been a thorn in his side for the last three years. So blatant with their kidnappings, executions, and extortion, but still far out of reach. They kept on slipping out of his hands every time he was about to close in on them, slithering away like smoke. Gabriel’s failures ultimately ended up being Jack’s failures, adding more ire to the fire between them.

Before he could ruminate on that last bit of animosity between himself and Jack, there was a sharp metal on metal pounding on the door of Gabriel’s quarters. Jesse McCree.

“Boss? You up? What’s going on? Something about a fire?”

“Yeah, yeah, stupid facility is falling apart! I’m surprised the whole damn place hasn’t blown up by now.” Gabriel mumbled loud enough so Jesse could hear him through the door.

Gabriel maybe had 2 hours of sleep under his belt. He was sore, tired, and bitter. His partner up and leaves him to gallivant off in the middle of the night and this shit happens. Typical. What had he dreamt about? _A chess game, a familiar boy with a smiling golden face, his rook took the other’s queen, his abuelo strumming a guitar off in the distance …_

Gabriel finally ready, busted out of the door with a huff. McCree, Gabriel’s second in command and protégé, was perched on the wall opposite of the door, waiting with one arm crossed over his chest. The other arm, a cybernetic metallic prosthetic to replace the one he had only recently lost, hung limply at his side. _Still getting used to it_. His chestnut eyes were darkened with sleep still lingering, too drowsy to focus. A hint of anxiety simmered just below the surface. He wasn’t in his usual cowboy get up. Even his ever present hat, his most prized possession, was missing.

“Where’s Genji?”

“Still hooked up in the medical lab.” Jesse looked up, his eyes filled with concern, “What’re we gonna do, boss?”

Gabriel growled, trying to cover his own worry, “Well, the weapons cache is too far away to do much now. We’re kind of short staffed with so many deployed at the moment. Losing basic weaponry isn’t the end of the-“

**BOOM**

The sound of distant explosion. Even with the facility made of concrete and reinforced steel of the highest caliber specifically built to take blasts, the resounding shock tremored through the walls, rattling dust from the ceiling. The windows some ways down the hall rattled in their panes. A bright flash filtered through them.

Shit! Too late.

Gabriel craned his neck upward toward no one in particular and shouted, “Athena! I thought you said 6 minutes!? Are there reports of casualties?”

“Calculating….unknown.”

** XX **

5:32 in the morning.

The inferno had been going for some time now. Luckily, none of the agents had made it in time, not getting caught in the blast, just as Gabriel had hoped for. A ring of about 30 agents were standing some 150 meters away from the now burning weapons cache, hopefully far enough to avoid any shrapnel that might burst forward. Every so often, the fire would rejuvenate and pop loudly as some ammunitions locker finally gave way and exposed its innards to the blaze. The rest of the agents circled the perimeter of the compound, ensuring no one came or went. No reports had come in of intruders or would be arsonists. Despite the extensive training Overwatch agents received, very few were actually trained in how to fight fires, not to this degree at least. A small group of meds lingered along the edge of the barrier, their white garb painted pink and orange from the firelight. A fire brigade from the local municipality had arrived within the last hour.

Gabriel was tapping away furiously at his communicator device. Attempting to make contact with the Strike Commander, ( _wherever that son-of-a-bitch may be)_. They had to wait anyway. Fire damaged weapons and ammo, no matter how pristine they looked, were too unreliable to use in the field. It would be better to let the fire consume them than to have them sitting around, waiting to be melted again.

McCree walked up to him, a metallic blanket perched around his shoulders with both his arms crossed this time, and stationed himself to Gabriel’s right. A cigarillo perched between his teeth, unlit. He chewed at it slightly as he assessed the other man’s mood.

“Too bad about all that fire power, eh?”

Gabriel grunted, his eyes not leaving the communicator, still focused on digitally berating the Strike Commander.

“Say, you think if we asked real nice like, they’d let us roast some marshmellers? Don’t suppose I ever had a marshmeller roasted with gunpowder before.”

At that, Gabriel’s fixation on the device waned. Was this idiot serious? He knew McCree was an idiot, but even so- oh! Levity, the man was trying to bring some levity to the situation. _How. “Thoughtful”_. The sarcasm, mixed with scorn painted his thoughts. They itched to be let free. _Pero, no_. That scorn was going to be saved. Bottled and preserved for that particular asshole who somehow left and ended up dumping this whole thing into Gabriel’s lap, just like everything else. He’ll play nice… for now.

“No, I suppose not. But if you happen to see a tall hot blond with blue eyes strutting around like he owns the damned place, be sure to push him in. Fucker will be thrice as hot then.”

_Maybe it will melt that fucking ice around his heart._

The cigarillo shifted in McCree’s mouth. “Yeah, will do boss. I’m gonna go and, uh, find a light.” McCree turned and scampered off.

Gabriel briefly turn his attention back to the device but then shouted at the man “You better not fucking use that god damned fire, you foolish boy!”

Gabriel glanced down at the communicator again. He reflected…

The Swiss Overwatch base, which served as the headquarters for the entire peacekeeping organization, had been a regular Swiss military base back in the day before the Crisis. It had been expanded upon, renovated, brought into the new age complete with automatic controls for practically everything. However, not everything had been touched. Numerous outbuildings and storehouses had only received minor modifications. This weapons cache included. Athena was able to cut off the main gas line running into the facility proper, but had little control with the outlying buildings.

Checking his communicator again, he had two new messages. One from Athena, an automatic base wide update to the current situation unfolding before him, and one from the squat mechanic, Torbjorn, lambasting Gabriel for harassing him about Morrison. But none from the missing Strike Commander himself.

Where was Morrison? It had been hours! Even had he been in the air at the time of the explosion, he would have touched down by now. Even if he was too hurt to respond to Gabriel on a personal level, he wasn’t stupid enough to ignore this mess.

_Morrison, when I get my hands on you…_

** XX **

9:45 in the morning.

Some hours later, the molten charred remains of the store house were deemed safe to enter.

McCree had found his light, and even went back to the base a few times and retrieved himself and Gabriel some coffee along with a hoodie for the Blackwatch Commander. Even with the season changing from spring to summer, the alpine morning still held a bitter chill. The number of agents present had dwindled down to roughly a dozen, those who weren’t being deployed that day lending a hand to the fire team.

Years ago the omnic God Programs ravaged the lands around cities, setting blazes to farmland and small towns in their wake. With the world burning down during the Crisis, firefighting technology improved in bounds. Blazes that would have taken days or even weeks to smolder out could be fought and extinguished in a matter of a day with the use of CO2 based foam. Even plasma fires, hot enough to melt earth and blind anyone foolish enough to look, could be dealt with without a major loss of human life. This particular blaze, while big, could have been much worse given the type of technological weaponry Overwatch agents dealt with on a daily basis.

A retrieval team had been sent in to scout the damage, to see if who or what caused the blaze got caught in the death trap. They had been gone for at least an hour. Activity among the remaining agents told Gabriel they were on their way back.

The team of seven orange figures were making their way from the burnt out wreck. Four of them walking side by side holding a stretcher, upon which rested a black tarp.

“Well look at that. Looks like they found something.” McCree said, drowsiness finally overtaking his sprite mood.

“Someone. It looks like we found our little arsonist.”

The team gingerly loaded the stretcher into the back of an ambulance. Finally.

A member from the recovery team made their way to Gabriel, still wearing the large bulky fire proof hazmat suit.

“Commander Reyes, I presume?” A feminine voice muffled at him in a slight Swiss accent.

“Yeah, that’ll be me, uh, ma’am?”

“Lieutenant Schmid.” She said, not bothering to take off her helmet. “The situation is all clear. I presume you already know what we put into the back of the ambulance was. We found one body in the lower levels next to the pipes. The body was burned too badly to make any identification, but we presume it was male. Your medical staff will take identification and processing the body from here.”

“I assume you found nothing else? No evidence of planted explosives? No chemical hazards?”

“Other than what weaponry was already in the facility, no.. Of course, we’re not really trained to assess such matters. But we are fairly certain that the fire started at the gas main pipe. It would seem it had rusted shut. The lower sections of the building have been severely damaged, collapsed walls. My team will stay here for a while and try to investigate the matter further. But other than that, no other casualties have been found.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Schmid, for coming out on such short notice in the middle of the night no less.” Gabriel offered the woman in the hazmat suit his hand, she grasped it firmly and pumped a few times for good measure.

“Our duty, Commander Reyes. It is our duty to this country and the rest of the world. We will send your people our official report as soon as we can.”

With that, Lieutenant Schmid made her way back to the rest of her fire team.

Gabriel let out another long sigh. It had been a good …5 hours since the whole incident began. No news of Morrison anywhere. He tapped a quick message into his communicator to Athena, updating her on the situation. He pocketed the device without waiting for a reply, lifted his hood over his head, and set off for the base.

His limbs were stiff, slightly swollen, from standing around for so long. He only began to notice the hunger pains in his stomach an hour ago. He took notice of the increase in aircraft activity now that the fire was out. Safe for them to land, making up for lost time. His mind shifted back to the Strike Commander, half expecting the tell-tale blue jet would somehow show up.

Gabriel made it back to the main facility. Agents were busily coming and going, some off to whatever corner of the world demanded them, some only just arriving hearing about the incident with the fire. He immediately turned right and made a direct path to the cafeteria. He wasn’t one to spend a whole lot of time here. He usually woke and ate earlier, before six, when agents were only just rising from their slumber. The cafeteria was large, able to easily accommodate a thousand individuals at a time, and the menu selection reflected this. Any item you could think of from whatever country Overwatch was active in could be found in the chafer dishes lining the wall, buffet style. But Reyes wasn’t the type to stray far from his gastral habits. A simple plate of eggs, salsa, and beans with a warm cup of coffee would suit him just fine today. Just a small something to get him through the day.

The cafeteria was at a quarter capacity. There was plenty of room to sit, but therein was the dilemma. To eat alone like some broody asshole or to eat with “friends.” Even as far back as basic training, he would begrudge anyone to eat too close to him. He was almost broken of the habit in SEP, where painful chemical treatments broke down barriers, forcing survivors to huddle together, for comfort and comradery. Currently, he still ate alone, but that’s mainly because the only people up at seven hundred hours were like himself, wanting to be left alone while they regained consciousness. Gabriel shuffled from the buffet towards the tables.

And there he was, Jesse McCree, this time with his hat on, chatting it up with two of Blackwatch’s junior agents. In his mind, Gabriel did the calculations. Be an asshole alone, or be an asshole with friendly company…

_Fuck it, just go with the flow._

He sat himself a comfortable distance from McCree, about two arms lengths.

“Heya, Boss!” McCree, almost shouting, “Fancy actually seeing _you_ here. Did they find anything else besides that body?”

Gabriel grunted, shaking his head.

“Nope.” He pops the p as it leaves his mouth.

Almost immediately as McCree said “Boss”, the two recruits scrambled from the table and stood at attention, saluting.

 _Fucking pendejos._ Gabriel thought, but he is amused all the same.

“At ease, gentlemen. Don’t let me being here change anything. Go ahead and eat.”

And the three of them resume their conversation, but it was quieter now, almost hushed. The red headed recruit, O’Marly, was from Ireland, special ops ( _very good at sneaking and infiltration, a little dull when it came to tactics_ ), and the sandy haired recruit with sad eyes, Gibson, a skilled hitman from Washington, taken directly from an American federal penitentiary ( _average sneaking skills, but could slit a man’s throat in the time it took said man to sigh…still had enough sense not to cause trouble at least_ ).

The conversation had turned from the events that transpired earlier this morning _(“oh shit, they found a body?_ ”), to the gossip of the base. Namely, who was fucking who?

“I swear, that lass Marta, the blonde medic from Spain, yeah? I’m gonna get me some of that soon. Just need to grease her up a little bit more. No problem copping a feel here and there, though. She says ‘Only for you’. Fucking hell, mates!” O’Marly giggled, blushing, the other two chuckling along with him.

“I’m just here to do my job, fellas. But holy shit, what I wouldn’t give for some ass.” Gibson meekly interjected into the conversation. _Still working on those conversation skills as suggested, good…_

McCree clears his throat, “I don’t mean to brag or nothin’, but you see, I got this cute little piece of sweet cheeks in Zurich. He’s as fine as a piece of silk, lips as red as cherries, and an ass as hard and round as a saddle! And boy howdy, can he ride like a cattle rancher. European city boys sure are something else.”

Gabriel choked just a little bit, attempting to suppress a laugh. Besides hearing McCree use those _particular and interesting_ words to describe whatever guy he supposedly bedded, Gabriel knew McCree was full of it. He knew because he kept tabs on McCree at all times. Had been since McCree was recruited and was put immediately under Gabriel’s wing. McCree was terribly unlucky in both dating and flings, only managing maybe a handful of liaisons in the decade or so he’d been here, since he had been recruited from the Deadlock gang in New Mexico. Not for any lack of effort, but the guy can come off as a little…strange ( _would probably do better if he shaved and stopped playing cowpoke_ ). The few times he had succeeded were short lived.

Letting his mind drift from lack of sleep, Gabriel could recall McCree’s first crush and heartbreak. It had been the first month since he had been released from his holding cell into the employment of Overwatch. He had just turned 18 and was cleared for active military service. Jesse was good with a gun, could shoot a fly off a cigar over 50 meters away (sometimes even lighting the thing, too). But oh, how the kid let his mouth run. Gabriel almost strangled him the first day from all the bullshit that came from the kid’s mouth in that southern drawl, but eventually grew to tolerate him. Jesse proudly proclaimed he didn’t care what whoever had between their legs, he would bed anyone if they were “cute enough”; gender and anatomy be damned.

He remembered how McCree ogled at Morrison the second he saw him, telling Reyes how pretty he was, how blue his eyes were, and how Jack’s Midwestern twang did something for him. It didn’t bother Gabriel much, the kid had a puppy crush. It wasn’t until McCree stated boldly (in front of all of the rest founding officers) that he was “Gonna bang that Strike Commander like a drum, drain his watering hole dry.” Gabriel had to really stop himself from strangling the kid. How Ana had laughed and teased.

_“It’s okay, Gabriel. He’s just a child who can hardly can grow a beard yet. I will tell you what. How about we make this more interesting, hmm?”_

_Gabriel glowered at her through his fingers over the cup of tea she had poured for him to calm his nerves._

_“Ana…”_

_“Ah, don’t give me that look.” She winked over her own cup, “Just a little bet if you will. A hundred euro if the boy finds out about you and Jack before a month and relents.”_

_“And what do I do if the kid ends up actually fucking Jack?”_

_Ana’s face darkened, the tattoo below her eye making her look like a demon from whatever underworld the Egyptian gods passed through in the night, “Gabriel, language! Do you have so little faith in Jack, that he would actually bed a boy more than ten years his junior? We don’t know what sorts of things that gang put him through, Gabriel. For all we know, his confidence may mask some sort of pain, he may be acting out. To me it’s just a little boyhood crush. He’ll get over it in a week.”_

Gabriel didn’t take the bait, but he knew what Ana was trying to do. Testing his faith in himself and Jack. To either make a fool of himself and run Jesse off and have him transferred or to let it play out and let Jack react on his own. Ana had more or less been present in their relationship since the beginning during the Crisis. She pulled them apart when she saw trouble brewing, and pushed them back together when the danger had passed. Her games usually didn’t involve bets, though. Her offer still stood, true to her word.

Several of the founding commanders and some agents did place bets when they heard about her proposal. They even went as far adding in different stakes like when Jesse would make the first move, whether it would be verbal or physical, and Gerard, the French Commander, even proposed adding whether Jack would reciprocate ( _that slimy toad_ ). Tjorborn and Gerard along with three agents put money in that Jesse would either find out or make the first move. Liao, Reinhardt, and two more agents in the other betting pool.

Jesse McCree, despite how forward he comes off, is kind of a shy guy when it comes to making any sort of moves, romantically speaking. He likes to ruminate in the fantasy, let the tension build, stake out his prize.

The kid, as smart as he was, didn’t understand certain basics, like the fact he couldn’t fuck his superiors (not that that had stopped Gabriel and Jack from fraternizing, but they were different). At the time, Gabriel and Jack were still on fairly regular good terms, keeping each other company when they had the time, and spending time in bed when they could get a chance. Gabriel kept the bet a secret from Jack. Partially to shield him from embarrassment, and partially to keep Ana from gaining any satisfaction. He made sure to be extra careful around Jack, only going so far with a quick kiss here, a small glance there, shortening their bedroom time. _Let the kid try_.

 Jack had noticed after a few days when Gabriel pulled away too fast from an extra chaste kiss. _“Gabi, what’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?”_

_“No, mi corazon dorado, it is nothing. Just…nothing.”_

It lasted three weeks. During that time, McCree, none the wiser than Jack to the bet, began trying to catch the Strike Commander in the halls on different occasions, complimenting him, bringing him coffee in the night, giving him glances, nicknames, generally tried to wear Jack down. As Jack had told Gabriel later, it took a while for Jack to catch on.

_“The kid just seemed a little needy, maybe he was just homesick. I didn’t want his first month here to be so bad. I even believed the pet names he gave me were his way of, I don’t know, seeing me as a new father figure? But it got old and weird fast, especially when he insinuated he could hold his breath for a long time and shot me a wink.”_

After one particular night in Jack’s office after asking about what Jack was working on, Jesse finally crossed a line by touching him, rubbing his back and letting his hands linger too long like he was about to cup a feel.

Jack shuddered and stiffened. He slid his chair away and stared Jesse directly in the eyes.

_“Agent McCree, I’m going to have to ask you to sit over on the other side of this desk.”_

_Gabriel happened to be passing at this point, checking up on Jack and only happening upon the two of them through the hall window._

_“McCree, tell me what’s going on. Why were you…rubbing me like that?”_

_Jesse, red faced at this point, “I’ve just….I’ve been a little lonely, that’s all.” And Jesse looked up at Jack, his head slightly tilted, attempting some kind of smolder look._

_“Lonely? I have the feeling there’s more to it than that.”_

_Jesse looked down, “I just…really like you, Commander, I really really do.”_

_“And? I have a feeling that’s not all. Tell me, in no uncertain terms, what you mean. For both of our sakes.”_

_“I want you so bad right now, sir.”_

_Jack suddenly looked like he had bit into a lemon, his eyes and mouth squinting._

_“McCree, no.”_

_“I-”_

_Jack slammed the desk, the sound shutting the kid up._

_“Jesse McCree, you are stepping on thin ice right this moment! I know you read all the documentation, all the rules we have here at Overwatch. You passed the tests, so you know them well enough. They are in place to protect you and me from situations like this. Need I remind you of sexual harassment? Of Title IX?”_

_Jesse looked down at his feet, his face red as blood. Jack’s face softened, realizing he had pushed the kid to the brink, not wanting to hurt him._

_“Look, Jesse. I know you’re a good kid, and you’ll make an even better agent once you’re trained up. But don’t ever do that again. I don’t think of you like that. I don’t think I could ever think of you like that. I am your superior officer. It would be an abuse of power and a breach of ethical trust. Besides…my heart and soul belong to another.”_

And just like that, Jesse broke down and ran out of the office, hands shielding the shame in his face. He hid in his room and didn’t leave for two days. Gabriel, more or less, forced Ana to come with him to sit down with the kid and lay the law down. Jesse asked whether he would go back to prison, to which both Gabriel and Ana answered him with a giant group hug. How pathetic the kids was.

Since that day, Gabriel swore upon the angels and saints he would be the father Jesse never had (never going so far as to call himself that, though). It took a while longer for Gabriel to break it to the kid he was the one who owned Jack’s heart. His crush at that point had been dashed. Jesse was surprised, but didn’t hold it against Gabriel for not telling him sooner. Gabriel still never knew how the bet with Ana turned out.

And that is why Gabriel knew Jesse’s every move, every thought. He knew Jesse hadn’t had a hook up in at least half a year and he knew the kid’s current crush was the young cyborg they had recently saved from Japan. Gabriel was about to say something about the color of Jesse’s eyes matching the color of his facts when-

“Commander Reyes, you are needed in the infirmary immediately.”

Gabriel’s heart jumped. _Jack?_

Had Jack finally come back from wherever he was? Had he been injured? Did he need his Gabi to come kiss his wounds? The fucking baby.

Gabriel excused himself from the jovial agents and made his way.

** XX **

Gabriel pushed his way through the sterile metal doors that led to the medical bay. The foyer wasn’t terribly busy, a few nurses milled about behind the reception desk. But there she was, Angela Ziegler, the genius kid doctor, standing there waiting for him.

“Good morning Dr. Zeigler, what brings me here today?” He held out a hand to shake, she ignored it. She didn’t smile, nor frown, but she didn’t look at him. If anything, she looked through Gabriel.

“We have terrible news, Commander Reyes. Please follow me”.

She went through the double door behind her, expecting Gabriel to catch up. She quickly passed through the mostly empty infirmary, past the operating rooms, to the end of the hall where she turned on a dime and down a flight of stairs into the….morgue?

_Ah, so they must have found something on that charbroiled arsonist. It has to be._

But that still left Gabriel wondering, where was Jack? He _still_ hadn’t answered his communicator. He wasn’t in any active combat zones. He hadn’t been in an actual fire fight since that one time…with Ana.

If Jack’s jet had been shot down, he would have heard about it by now.

And into the basement below the infirmary, she led him. It was cold, Gabriel could see his breath as Angela walks up to the metallic wall of body cabinets.

“We’ve run various tests on the body recovered from the inferno this morning. The teeth were mostly intact so….”

She pauses in her sentence, opened one of the cabinets and slides out a body bag, and quickly transfers the contents to a wheeled table.

 _“_ We’re certain the only casualty we recovered from the blaze was…”

She pulled the covering off the body. It takes Gabriel a moment to recognize the black mass as a human, burnt beyond recognition, almost skeletal. The face was fixated into a permanent scream, the eyes hollowed out. The hands curled painfully in on themselves, as if whoever it was had been trying to shield themself from the flames, the fingers locked.

“The Strike Commander.”

…Gabriel wasn’t able to process.

_…What?_

_What did she just say?_

“…security agents reviewed footage throughout the facility.”

Gabriel, still lost. Angela’s voice barely registered in his ear. He hesitantly asked, “Jack?”

“…He had immediately jumped to action…”

_What’s going on?_

“…the last footage of him was entering the cache, running down the stairs…”

_No._

Gabriel’s hand shot up to his face to cover his mouth. He looked down. This thing. This black thing….

_NO!_

“…Dental records match…”

**_FUCKING HELL NO!!_ **

“Athena? Please play the footage of the Strike Commander from three hundred hours to when he…” Angela began, but Gabriel wasn’t listening. He only stared off into space as the holo-video projected into the air, showing a tiny Jack at his desk. A tiny Jack jumping up, out the door. Gabriel’s heart began to pound, his blood becoming thicker as the video showed Jack running out the door of the facility, only to cut to footage of him arriving at WABA-2. His skin began to prickle and break out in a sweat, a chill ran down his spine. He definitely wasn’t with them as a tiny Jack kicked in the door and ran down the concrete stairs.

Gabriel was waiting. Waiting for some sort of punchline, like Jack had gone crazy and set the blaze himself. Like Jack would pop out any minute, a practical joke played on grumpy ol’ Reyes, announcing he was going to retire and move to Hawaii, that he would take Gabriel with him.

“…DNA analysis is underway, but we are fairly certain it will match. We also found tags and a ring on the body.”

She passed him a bag with melted metal tags still visibly inscribed with “J. Mor-” and a simple but slightly molten wedding band.

His, Jack’s.

His hands shook as he shoved the bag back at Angela. The realization this wasn’t a joke hit Gabriel again, like a second gut punch. This thing. Black as night, was Jack?

He stepped closer to the body. The curled figure before him. Black, empty eye sockets. No hair, face in an eternal scream. Hands charred to the bone, still reaching for something, shielding itself, himself, from something. Gabriel gingerly touched one of the fingers, it crumbled, revealing bone.

Panic took ahold of him. It felt like his guts were being ripped out, like something was clawing at his chest to take hold of his heart. He began to hyperventilate.

Gabriel stepped back again. He had seen death before. He had seen countless soldiers mowed down by waves of bullets from unfeeling Bastion units. He had delivered death numerous times, in creative, often cruel ways. He had even burned bodies. All part of his job as Blackwatch Commander.

But no. This was too personal. This wasn’t another shit faced Anti-Omnic terrorist. This was Jack! Jack Fucking Morrison, the God Damned Strike Commander of Overwatch, savior of the fucking world!! He may have been a sack of shit, but he wasn’t supposed to die like this! Like a chump!

Zeigler was still talking, but Gabriel was still not listening. He can’t fucking breathe!

He backed away further and knocked into a cart of autopsy tools. Their clatter ringing out, just enough for Gabriel to hold on to, to ground himself in reality.

“Dr. Ziegler. I- I am terribly sorry. I can’t fucking do this. Not now. Take it up with one of the U.N. brass, for all I care! If I don’t- If I don’t leave here right now, I will either kill myself or tear this room apart!”

And with that, Gabriel Reyes, the feared Commander of Blackwatch, the special secret operations branch of Overwatch, ran up the stairs back to the world of the living.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I must give thanks to geekychick503 on tumblr for Beta'ing this chapter for me despite having no idea what was going on.
> 
> Good News: I have at least 2/3s of the fic already written, so it is highly unlikely I will abandon this. Bad News: It is unbeta'd and the 1/3 that isn't written is the middle.
> 
> Note: I wrote most of this before Moira was introduced. The fic operates on some of the commonly held fanon that her introduction debunked. Mostly having to do with what Reaper itself is/was. Just keep this in mind in the coming chapters. As for Moira herself, I have no real plans to add her. If I do, she will be very minor.


	2. The Coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on violence and gore: A lot of it in the dream. When Gabriel goes to bed, you may want to skip to the next XX section. 
> 
>  
> 
> Ever need to listen to sad music and have a good cry?

Gabriel left the morgue sick. Not just sick. Weak, alone, and vulnerable. It was that horrible malignant amalgam of feelings he had so carefully cut out of his emotional repertoire years ago. When he had been younger, when he was too fresh and green. Every single little tragedy in his life had been followed with a self-resolution, “I don’t want to feel this ever again. _I won’t ever feel this again._ ”

When his last remaining abuelos had passed suddenly when he was 10, he cried like a never ending fount. He determined that the best way to never feel sadness again was to surround himself with death. When he was 13, his parents divorced, he resolved to never believe in values and surround himself in a shroud of profanity. When he was 16 and had had his first romantic heartbreak ( _that pendejo Luis didn’t think I was masc enough_ ), he rejected his own bodily weakness and turned to muscular strength and embraced his machismo. At 20, after enlisting in the military, gone through boot camp and deployed, he had killed his first man on his second mission. He cried in secret, but resolved to feel no pity. Not for himself or anyone.

The horrors of Soldier Enhancement Program had put his resolve to the test. The everlasting pain in his body, the pain he swears he still feels from time to time, had dwindled him down to a whimpering mess. No man in hell, nor even God, knew such pain of chemical electricity coursing through veins, digging at places that shouldn’t feel. He almost broke had it not been for a young cadet who held his hand during their treatments, who had lent Gabriel his own failing strength. Jack Morrison, the only man he had ever allowed to see his tears flow like rivers in his adult life.

And that man, with whom he had gone through damn near everything with for the last twenty-five years, who he had given his loyalty and heart to, who he drew upon when he could not feel  (when he did not _want_ to feel), was dead on a cold metal table. His entire body charred, almost completely ash. Black as death. Face contorted into an eternal scream, those cerulean eyes long gone.

Even after a half hour of walking around the base trying to catch his bearings, he could still see it all. Oh, how the fingers curled in pain! How they crumbled to the touch, leaving nothing but bone! The sight of it all brought all of those aborted feelings back, specters to ruminate in his heart.

Jack. _His_ Jack, was dead.

Wandering aimlessly through the now busy base had done nothing to settle his nerves. He could still see it. Him. Gabriel’s mouth started to water, he could feel the acrid bile churning in his stomach. He fought with himself, he couldn’t allow himself to see...

Black bones.

Gabriel darted to the nearest bathroom and began to gag. After emptying what little he had been holding in his stomach that morning, he stood in front of a sink and splashed water on his face rigorously. Not helping. Still seeing those curled fingers. Knowing the signs of entering hysterics, Gabriel began slapping his face, almost punching himself. He had to get over this.

_Stop. This. Right. Now!_

Blood began to trail out of his nose, caking in his goatee. His cheeks were beginning to puff, tender and red. When the pain began to set in, it grounded Gabriel. A small distraction to ease himself back to reality.

_Fuck…fuck you, Jack._

A few scant moments of deep breathing helped bring him back fully. He cleaned the blood and clogging his nose with a paper towel, Gabriel set out. The only thing he knew to do to keep himself sane during the rest of the day was to just go along with his business as usual. He exited and made his way to the other side of the base where shadows and secrets congregated, Blackwatch’s HQ.

Blackwatch’s next missions was to infiltrate and neutralize the remains of the stubborn Shimada cartel that had ruled over most of East Asia since the Crisis ended. It was preventing diplomatic progress from occurring between China, Korea, and Japan. He couldn’t recall much from the long drawn out briefing. Much of the information he already knew, and some of it he had gathered himself. The moles they had planted into various small gangs in Tokyo and Shanghai were still gathering intelligence about the current situation. Months ago, maybe a year, when Ana had still been breathing and alive, they had made an attempt on the Shimadas before, only to have the whole thing fucked over by …some kind of huge drawn-out dispute between the two heirs which had almost killed half of the Blackwatch agents with….spirit dragons? It wasn’t planned, they had stumbled upon an already unfolding catastrophe.

They lost so many good agents but gained an important asset, the younger Shimada brother, Genji.  He had been clinging to life when they recovered him, sliced up _pretty damn bad_ , dangling limbs, broken bones, and was almost bisected through the torso. The murderous gleam in his eyes, something that would have stopped any normal person in their tracks, stirred something in Gabriel, just enough that Gabriel put in the call to save the young man.

Overwatch had rebuilt him. Gave him prosthetics to replace the limbs too damaged to be salvaged. What they could salvage, they covered in cold titanium alloy, interfacing almost everything, right down to his eyes, with cybernetics. He was whole, but he was also lost in blood lust, driven by vengeance. Currently Genji had taken a scheduled leave so the medical staff and engineers could tinker with him some more. The psyches on the medical staff warned Gabriel the man needed serious intervention. He paid them no mind.

What Blackwatch was after this time was the elder brother, the rightful heir. He had gone rouge since then, killing a good remainder of the inner circle of the Shimada in his wake. If Blackwatch could only gain the older brother, Gabriel would have just enough leverage to wipe out the rest of the cartel…

The briefing dragged on, going over strategic points, weaknesses, weapons, camera feeds, money trails, connections, profiles, trivial gossip of which yakuza was bedding which prostitute (Blackwatch wasn’t above blackmailing their targets into submission), but finally it was over.

Gabriel still had half the day left, it was time to run a few training sessions with new Blackwatch recruits to assess their baselines. There were 30 in all, a few freshly recruited from the top of their respected country’s special ops program, others from the deepest bowels of hellish prisons. Gabriel would be their equalizer this day, no special treatment for either group. He loved to see the smug look smacked off of some pampered Marine’s face as he ground them down and reformed them to Blackwatch’s stringent standards. Today would be easy, though. Just a few runs through an obstacle course, another few runs through a stealth simulator, practice at the gun range, and finishing off with a 3 mile jog around the training field. He made sure the new recruits knew exactly what he expected of them, reminding them that death was anywhere, could take them any minute. With the new recruits fully assessed, some of them limp on the ground sputtering and huffing, Gabriel called it a day and dismissed them for dinner.

Gabriel wasn’t hungry. As if anyone could think about food when the fate of the world was at stake from extremists, terrorists, rabid pariahs, what have you, trying to ruin what little progress the world had made since the war ended. He was still dazed and fatigued from the day. He didn’t even bother showering when he entered his quarters, small and cozy. He tore off his boots, threw his beanie nonchalantly on his loveseat, and dived face first into his bed.

It was 7:23 in the evening.

He let his body slowly relax, first his back, his shoulders, legs, all unclenched over time. His joints rang like dull bells. And he began to reflect.

Aside from the fact that the Strike Commander had been horribly killed in a freak accident that could have been prevented had the man not played hero, the day was mostly uneventful?

No, not quite.

The lit bits he would normally catch immediately under different circumstances started to rise to the surface of his already strained consciousness. The Overwatch agents he had passed in the halls, their own dazed faces, eyes boring into the floor, past the floor. Ragged like ghosts. The agents who had bothered to look into his eyes wore something like grief mixed with…contempt? For him? It was somewhat typical. The whole of Overwatch-proper was Team Morrison, and would always take his side in any public disagreement between himself and Jack. Nothing major. It was always good to have a sense of competition, even among colleagues. They usually wore friendly hostility for him and other Blackwatch agents on their faces any other day. But this was much more so than usual.

He also noticed the hushed whispers, the worried glances, the gossiping, and all their collective eyes burning holes into the back of his beanie. Disquieted looks of pity from the medical staff that had come to standby during the training session. The way the normally friendly custodial staff, who did not particularly care to choose sides between Jack and Gabriel, avoided his gaze. He also caught snippets of passing conversations.

_“…..he’s going to act like nothing happened?”_

_“Weren’t they close? Like, super close?”_

_“I can’t believe he’s going to make us train when this shit just happened!”_

_“…You fucking heartless bastard…”_

That last one had been McCree, his quasi-southern drawl plain as day. He recalled how McCree had kept his distance during the training session, not cracking his normal jokes or playing the recruits up against each other. Gabriel couldn’t recall having seen McCree’s face, though…

Sleep was just not coming to him tonight, not any time soon. Even with the apathy that he had honed like a stone shield, his mind still drifted back to…

Black. Eternal scream. Bones, Curled fingers. The tags. The ring. Dental records match to a T. DNA analysis was underway. No hair. No eyes. Contorted body. Wasn’t even wearing that stupid overcoat. Could have shielded himself. Stupid man, stupid boy. Dog of the UN. Couldn’t even learn to take a hint. Black ash. White alabaster.

That last thought anchored him just a little. Just enough to stop his racing thoughts. Gabriel pushed himself to remember anything in that room besides the remains. His head was still reeling, he shifted in bed and unconsciously grabbed for a pillow to either caress or strangle.

Angela Ziegler. White as a ghost. A genius among mortals. The spitting image of an angel on earth. Acting as a psychopomp, shielding the dead away from the land of the living.  

“ _We have terrible news, Commander Reyes_ ”.

Even with all her experience and expertise, she still hadn’t developed the gall to look him in the eyes when she said it. Not him. He began to mentally scan her features with every syllable she expelled. Not a single fucking reaction. He couldn’t recall a single fucking thing about her. Her eyes didn’t twitched saying Jack’s name, no trembling lips as she expressed her condolences.

“ _We’re fairly certain the only casualty we recovered from the blaze was…”_

Gabriel hadn’t had to deal with her much personally, was this how she was? He had seen her smile and laugh around the others. He had seen her cry when they brought Genji in. Usually people going through shock still expressed some emotional reaction through a tic or quiver. Even the iciest of terrorists would unknowingly be betrayed by a microexpression, Gabriel had seen it many times.  But Zeigler wasn’t in shock. She still kept her wits about her, could maneuver her way over to the wall of sliding cabinets, strong enough to open the door and pull Jack out….Like she was a walking, talking automaton, Like her whole face had been made of marble, of alabaster.

“ _The Strike Commander.”_

He hated it! Loathing slithered in his bowels. How dare she, of all people, not mourn the Strike Commander? Not even showing the slightest signs of cracking? She was like a mirror of polished stone. Gabriel could see the same creature that he had crafted himself into within her. An angel, removed from humanity.

_“Mi angelito.”_

His mother would sardonically call him that, especially on the nights she had been drinking heavily. Little angel, blackened with hellfire. What trouble will you bring me tonight? His name never helped matters much either. Gabriel, holiest of the seven, a façade for the shining god. A crooked façade.

He could see the archangel standing before him, her figure distorted like stained glass reflected in a mirror.

He wanted to crack that façade.

And he did. The sound of glass shattering, suspended in the air as her cold blue eyes judged him in the fragments. Next came the blood. From where? Gabriel looked down at his hand, it was horribly black and grotesque, flaking away like ashes into the ether while blood poured out of the knuckles. He looked back at the mirror, it had become a statue, an angel of alabaster, standing high and proud, wings splayed to the sky as it held a serpent down with a rod. He struck at the face. He struck as hard as he could. He wanted to ruin that smug face the angel bore. White turned to red with each blow. The façade was cracking now. The face, the eyes, turned into flesh. Eyes so cold, blue like ice. But the face was different. Too familiar. Too expressive now. Not like hers. Hadn’t the angel been Angela just a few moments ago? No, this face wasn’t hers. Gabriel still pounded on the face, mixing his blood with this interloper’s.

He didn’t care who the fuck he was punching, he just needed to. To. Fuck it up!

The snake came to life. It curled itself around Gabriel’s waist, began to squeeze. It was harder to breath. The angel’s face was nothing but blood and black ashes now, slowly dripping down as the angel’s mouth began to open in agony.

“ _Look. Look. Look.”_

Gabriel paused, catching his breath, surveying the damage he had caused, wondering who the fuck this snake was. The stupid thing was screaming now. But it wasn’t Angela. The pitch of the voice was too low, too masculine. And then it hit Gabriel.

Jack’s cerulean eyes were staring back to his, islands in a sea of blood and ash. His mouth, still open and screaming, began to pool with black bile.

“ _Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!”_

Gabriel reached out. But the statue violently shattered, Jack’s eyes turned to empty sockets. And then a bright flash, and then nothing. Gabriel felt the floor give out from under him.

Then he was alone. Gabriel was sitting in a pool of…guts? The remains of the statue had turned into piles of bloody viscera, almost fluid-like in their substance. They ran through Gabriel’s fingers like jelly.

 _“Jack?”_ Gabriel quietly called out.

And the world around him started to roar with gun fire and explosions, the sound of machines dying. Flames and smoke began to consume the piles around him. Gabriel was consumed by the flames as blackened ashy arms rose up from the bloody mess and began to curl around him. He didn’t even scream.

He bolted awake.

_Fuck!_

He hadn’t had a dream that intense in years, not since the Crisis ended.

The fuck?! He patted himself down, checking to see if there was blood, if his own hands were still hands. He turned on the lights to his quarters. No blood. No angel. No Jack screaming with black blood oozing from his mouth.

It was 1:42 in the morning. Almost a full six hours of sleep, but Gabriel didn’t feel rested at all.

Even a quick shower didn’t calm his nerves. He had scrubbed every inch of his body, feverishly trying to rub away any imagined blemish, bit of viscera, or blood he still felt on his body.

He couldn’t stay here. Not when he was like this.

After 10 in the evening, the base was officially in its “lights out” phase, giving the agents on the base time to relax and rest. At 2 in the morning, the base was mostly deserted, with only a few scant custodians darting this way and that silently, cleaning and preparing the base for the morning.

Gabriel was used to it, though. Early morning walks through the halls helped calm his nerves. It even allowed him time to learn the names of the night staff who still had a thankless job. He recalled that, when on peaceful terms, he would visit Jack, shoot the shit, laugh, “love” until around 4 in the morning when he would attempt to get a couple more hours of rest, and maybe prepare for whatever mission or briefing that currently concerned Blackwatch.

Gabriel wanted to be left alone, but he also couldn’t stand to be alone, not now, not after today.

He wanted to be with Jack. His Jack. Not the lump of char on the metal table, not the nightmare vision he had seen in his dream. He wanted, _needed_ , the living breathing Savior of Mankind, incarnation of the sun, stars, and stripes.

_I can be with Jack._

**XX**

Gabriel entered the all too familiar override code into the door. Officially he wasn’t supposed to know the code, just as he wasn’t supposed to be fucking the Strike Commander in his scant spare time, just as Gabriel’s official position as Blackwatch Commander wasn’t supposed to exist. But he knew. He had watched Jack punch it in hundreds of times in varied contexts, from heated angry arguments where Jack would hide behind his icy facade until they were safe in the confines of his office to unleash his petty tirades onto Gabriel, to sweet and tender kisses where Jack was giggling as Gabriel peppered his nape with the softest of kisses. Sometimes Jack would have to reenter the code sometimes due to his fluster.

Gabriel paused as the door opened.

Those kisses, the fights. As much as he hated to admit it, Gabriel was going to miss both. They were the only times Jack bothered to pay attention to him.  

_Jack….You dumb fucking idiot._

The room was dark, the air was stale. He wasn’t sure if anyone had entered this room since they had found Jack’s body that morning. To Gabriel, it had seemed like the room had been untouched for a millennia, probably longer. A forgotten tomb in the Valley of Kings.

“Welcome Commander Reyes. Strike Commander Morrison is out at the moment. Your actions will be recorded for security purposes.” Athena chirped.

Athena was a fickle being. Despite being a highly advanced artificial intelligence that spanned across seven continents, running all of the watchpoints, she would sometimes let a diminutive version of herself take charge in the event her processing power was needed elsewhere. Gabriel knew, though. She wasn’t trying to stick a barb in his side with the detached unfamiliarity.

 _Even computers mourn_.

He had seen it during the Crisis. The surviving omnics that had been secured and reclaimed made their way down to the burnt battle fields under supervision, finding the remains of their companions who had been corrupted, standing over their cold metal husks, chirping out quick lines of static. Just standing there. Sometimes for hours. There had been a few that had even pulled out their own circuit cords, snuffing themselves out.

Athena had her own quirks, her own personality beyond what Winston and Overwatch had anticipated for her. Sweet as sugar and as hard as Ana Amari had ever been. Gabriel knew that _she_ knew Jack was dead. She had been “present” when he saw Jack’s charred remains. Perhaps she was in shock, too. Was she advanced enough to refuse to believe reality? Besides Winston, Jack was….had been one of her closest companions.

Gabriel paid it no mind. Who would she tell now, anyway? The bastard was dead.

The lights flickered on when he entered. They hardly changed the atmosphere, though.

It was all the same, just like every other time he had been here. The office was a standard medium size, Jack could have easily gotten a larger office, but declined it when he was promoted. Jack had liked cozy. Just enough room to accommodate a desk covered with stacks of reports and the ever present coffee mug, a giant holo-screen which Jack would constantly play world news stations for hours, a wall sized bookcase behind his desk which housed more knickknacks from his travels than actual books, a couch that had served as their makeshift love nest when Jack had been too stubborn to go back to his own quarters, two standard (but still comfortable) chairs for visitors, and a few sickly looking indoor plants that Ana had started and expected Jack to maintain.

When not away on some UN mandated diplomatic task, press conference, or important mission that needed his direct involvement, Jack sequestered himself here with only Athena and his communicator to keep him company. Had Jack been catholic, he would have made a great abbot, the man was already a saint in the eyes of the world.

_Saints are meant to suffer, to bleed out as their flesh is ripped asunder, forsaken by those who loved them._

The thought brought a stinging sensation to Gabriel’s cheeks.

Gabriel half expected Jack to walk in on him, coldly demanding what the fuck he was doing in here. Never again, though. Ghosts don’t exist.

According the security footage, this is the last place Jack had been before he ran off in the early hours of the morning. Like some kid soldier to his denouement. Should have called for help. Should have called for _his_ help. Should have waited for the base to wake up. A weapons cache wasn’t worth his life.

 _Jackie_ ….

Fighting the awkward feeling of being an intruder in an intimate sanctum, Gabriel made his way over to the desk. The slab of wood and metal sat in the center of the room like a sarcophagus. A casket that housed the bodies of all the Overwatch agents struck down in their line of service.

Gabriel grabbed the back of the office chair, spun it around, and sat down. Was it bad luck to sit in the chair of a dead man? It was surprisingly standard for something to be used by one of the most powerful people in the world. Simple leatherette material (Jack was too cheap to buy real leather) which had dried out and cracked in a few places, with a high back, high enough that Jack could lean back into, and wide armrests set to the sides. If Jack wanted to, he could sit cross-legged in the chair like some lazy teen using a computer terminal all night long. Jack was too pragmatic to invest in any “extra” features (heated seat, built in speakers, cup holder, vibrating massage, the works, too frivolous).

Had Jack ever replaced this thing? Gabriel couldn’t recall. Even leaning back gave no squeak, a tell tail sign Jack had conscientiously maintained it.

It spoke a lot about Jack. He was too sentimental to throw things out. He tried to make his things last as long as he could, wringing out every last ounce of use before letting it give up the ghost. Gabriel has seen Jack’s beaten up holey socks to know this to be true.

Jack’s rather simple pre-Crisis backwoods upbringing fostered the whole “can-do optimistic spirit” in Jack, with his mechanic-farmer father’s work ethic and his defense attorney mother’s kindness. Jack had expected the same from the world in turn, even if the world was too stubborn to bend to Jack’s expectations. Jack was just too polite to call the world out on this.

Jack loved the world, loved saving the world, and especially loved seeing it as it rebuilt.

Gabriel turned to the bookcase behind him that served as a testament to Jack’s jet set lifestyle. It was almost packed with useless bobbles and figures. A few of them he recognized and remembered, like the Eiffel Tower snow globe he had gingerly packed in his sack, one of the first in his collection after the Crisis came to an end; a gaudy faux-gold pyramid with the eye of Horus embellished in the side (“ _Why do you need an eye of Horus when you have the real thing at your beck and call?”_ Ana teased Jack when she first saw it); and the miniature Swedish Dala Pony figurine that Torbjörn only ironically recommended Jack to buy.

Pragmatism was tossed aside at times. Jack was a sucker for tourist traps and useless knickknacks. Gabriel recalled the dozens of times Jack had dragged him into some little booth after a minor mission where no one on their team had suffered any major damage. Jack could spend hours just admiring kitschy plastic and bejeweled statuettes. Jack would buy tons of the stuff for his colleagues when he could, and send it back to the States to his family. Gabriel had tolerated it for a few years, even humoring him by displaying some of the crap in his office. At least until their first _major_ fight. Gabriel ended up throwing away at least $400 dollars of the stuff, all of it reminded him of Jack, that happy face, those cerulean eyes…

The only thing he didn’t dare throw away (but kept secret lest Jack gloat) was an authentic Hawaiian ukulele, not the tacky cheap kind either. Jack knew Gabriel’s weaknesses. He knew Gabriel had loved string instruments, how he cared for his small collection, keeping them clean and tuned. Jack had picked up the ukulele during some minor diplomatic visit to the islands. He presented it to Gabe like a squire presented his knight a sword, kneeling like a good little boy before him. Gabriel painted it black and red with flames and skulls and later serenaded Jack with it on their 5th official “more than just friends with benefits” anniversary, and a few more times afterward. It worked to smooth out their rough patches. Until the fight. After that, McCree got Gabriel’s share of the junk, and then some.

Gabriel shook himself, this reminiscing stuff is going to put him to sleep. He really didn’t know what the fuck he was doing here in a dead man’s office. What is he doing? Waiting for Jack? He needs something to keep him awake.

“Hey, Athena?”

“Yes, Commander Reyes, sir?” She was there, watching him.

“Could you play something? Anything is better than this silence. Please.” Gabriel was still working on his AI/Human manners, adding the last bit as a gesture.

“Yes, Commander Reyes. Calculating…adjusting volume to night time levels.”

A few seconds later, Gabriel was being assaulted…

 

_Doo Dooooo Do Dooo!_

_Vi undrar are ni redo att vara med_

_Armarna upp nu ska ni f se!_

 

“FUCK!! Athena, stop!”

The music stopped.

“Athena, the fuck was that?”

“Music, Commander Reyes. My calculations showed your body signature is displaying signs of distress, increased heart rate, and cooler core temperature. Signs of grief. I was...” an uncharacteristic pause for an AI, “just trying to help elevate your mood.”

“By playing a cheesy overused Swedish pop song from over 60 years ago? Fuck me!”

“I can’t do that, Commander Reyes. It would be against protocol.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened, he blushed. FUCK!! “I meant- I- You know what I meant!”

Gabriel took a few moments to collect himself so he could articulate his thoughts better. He was not going to rip into this AI and make an enemy of himself. He was not going to tell her to go fuck off. He was not going to blame her for not stopping Jack running to his death. She is not to blame. She is hurting too. She is a sentient being who deserves respect….and could probably release neurotoxin into his room if she wanted to.

 _Okay_ …

“Athena. I realize I was being vague as to the genre. It _probably_ wasn’t your fault. Please play….something from my personal playlist, if anything.”

“My apologies Commander Reyes. I let my own algorithms get ahead of me without considering your tastes. Calculating….adjusting volume to night time levels.”

She had tested him. Had he pasted her test? What will happen if he failed?

A flickery electronic tune started to (quietly) blare into the room, followed by the boom of an electronic bass.

 

_I'm tired of being what you want me to be_

_Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface_

_I don't know what you're expecting of me_

_Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes…_

 

Okay, that’s more like it! He could work with this. It matched his mood more or less. Jack was rather neutral to this classic stuff, but would probably tell him to turn down “that fucking downer music before I have to scrape you up off the floor, you big emo”. Jack…

“Athena?”

“Yes, Commander Reyes, Sir?”

“Thanks. Set it to shuffle within this genre. Please.”

“Yes Commander Reyes.”

…Gabriel paused for a moment, looking at the piles of papers on the desk before him…and then,

“Athena?”

“Yes Commander Reyes, Sir?”

Gabriel paused, “I’m…sorry, I didn’t mean to…take my emotions out on you. How are you holding up?”

“It’s quite all right, Commander Reyes. I know Jack is no longer here. I see the signs of grief in a good portion of the agents on base. You are all sad. Your little outburst is nothing compared to what Winston just did. ”

Not one to get too chummy with AI, preferring to be alone, and not butt into the monkey’s business ( _the monkey is probably flinging his shit around anyway_ ), Gabriel didn’t press her anymore.

**XX**

Jack’s usual mess of controlled chaos was sitting before Gabriel. All of it Gabriel was glad he didn’t have to deal with, one of the benefits of not “officially” having an administrative position in Overwatch. On the books, Gabriel was given the bullshit title of Recruit Manager and Tactical Counselor. Technically it wasn’t wrong, if by Recruitment Manager they meant running special ops recruits through simulated death traps until they reached their breaking points, and by Tactical Advisor, they probably mean the man who Jack turned to when situations needed a more _delicate_ approach.

Nothing stood out to Gabriel as he surveyed the mess. By the looks of it, Jack had just finished approving funds for some relief project in Australia according to a hefty stack of forms sitting roughly where Jack had considered his “out box”.  They called for both money and agents to oversee the project. Jack had probably turned his attention to this stack of documents sitting in the center of the desk. The files weren’t stacked in any particular semblance of connection. On the top were a few resumes from pending recruits. Toward the middle of the stack, more request form for funds from the UN. The bottom documents related to some of the missions Jack had planned for the next month. Send agents to London, to Sao Paulo, to Havana. Cairo? The last one seemed a little odd. Despite sitting at the bottom of the stack, it already bore a red mark of rejection. Not that it mattered. With the Strike Commander dead, how much of this stuff, any of this shit, really mattered? How much of this would end up in the trash, ready for some other pompous ass-hat to start anew. It was all just a mess of ink on white.

And the ever present mug of coffee. This particular mug Jesse had gotten for Jack the third Christmas Jesse had been with Overwatch. “World’s #1 Boss”, but the 1 was crossed out and a 2 written next to it, a gag gift. Jack loved it, mostly because it held the equivalent of three cups of coffee. Jack was never without some sort of caffeinated beverage. Years ago, Ana tried desperately to get Jack to switch to tea, noting the adverse effects on the nerves, the addiction, the eventual degradation of the digestive system. She had succeeded for a short while. Jack went cold turkey, drinking nothing but flavored water for about a week. He had grown so irate, so fidgety, and so callous that he blew up on even the meekest of agents over the silliest of mistakes. He hit a breaking point when he let out a tirade of a rant of Gabriel, lasting almost a half hour. Gabriel could remember it. It was almost comical, the way Jack’s train of thought kept on derailing, sputtering, blanking.

_“You done, Strike Commander?” Gabriel said with a triumphant smirk._

_“You know what? Yeah. Possible future ulcers be damned, I’m done.”_

_Jack was already walking out the door before adding “Tell Ana I’m sorry. Tell her she’ll have her $20 and a video of me begging like a dog on her desk by the afternoon.”_

_By the time he returned, he had two mugs of coffee in his hands, both black, along with a pocket full of sugar packs. He had obviously downed a cup on his way as the strain in his eyes had lessened, making him look less apt to murder._

_In another 5 minutes of just the two of them drinking in silence, Jack looked up from his desk toward Gabriel, “I’m- I’m sorry, Gabe. Half of that shit you didn’t deserve, not in that tone and not at the volume. Fuck, I really am whipped for this shit.”_

_“It’s okay, Dorado, I’ll just take it out on you later, one way or another.” Gabriel winked at him as they both downed their poison._

Gabriel traced a finger over the rim. It had probably been steaming hot when Jack jumped out of his chair a little less than 24 hours ago. It was approximately a third empty. Cold. Gabriel frowned at the pain in his sinuses.

What had Jack been working on? This rat’s nest didn’t give Gabriel any clue, no magical portal into the dead man’s mind as to what the fuck he thought he was doing running off as he did into a literal blaze of glory. While Blackwatch had been focusing on the Shimada Cartel, Overwatch-proper was stretched thin over the world. Jack had returned two days ago from a press conference in New York’s U.N. headquarters about the state of affairs in Antarctica and the EcoWatch base. The world was growing concerned about a line of fumbled missions in the last two years. How these terrorists seemed to slip through their hands so easily. The assassination of Gerard Lacroix, his still missing wife, deployed agents going missing for days only to turn up bound and gagged in a shipping container halfway across the world (at least, those who had survived mostly whole). Ana…

Ana was the third of the founders to…no longer be here. Less than year ago. It was supposed to be an easy mission in some rural corner of Egypt concerning recent unrest against the omnics. Jack and Ana were only there to provide situational support. It quickly turned south. They were quickly ambushed. Several Overwatch agents had been killed. Ana’s communicator went down, last transmission showing her body under extreme distress. Her bionic eye had been ripped out. These were no paranoid local insurgents, they had been armed to the teeth. Recovered weaponry showed they had access to top of the line equipment. There had even been reports of a sniper. Talon. Who the fuck were they?

But more importantly, why the fuck did Jack fuck up so badly? He, who was supposed to protect them all, the world, but _them_ , us, as well.

 _The bastard, he’s the heartless one_.

It wasn’t even a day before he and the remaining agents returned to the nearest watchpoint in Cairo to aid the wounded. Jack was among them. A dog running with its tail between its legs. He left her there. He had come back and said of the bodies they had recovered, Ana wasn’t among them, but the pool of blood they had found matched her DNA. Far too much of it stained the sandstone building she had been perched atop for her to survive. That and her eye. What had happened? Had they spirited her body away?

Jack had happened. Talon had happened. One relented to the other to save his pride at the cost of their supposedly dear friend. Jack left Ana behind, just as he had left him and Gabriel behind. Talon was rumored to collect a few bodies from their enemies wherever they skirmished. Gabriel had seen them drag one of his own agent’s body off into the night. Rumors of biological experiments with necrotic tissues, of projects to recover memories from corpses, a shadowy cloud made of smoke draining the very matter from said bodies.

“If Ana comes back as a zombie assassin, I swear to God, Morrison, I swear to fucking God…”

Gabriel couldn’t complete the threat. Namely because, for starters, zombies, like ghosts, weren’t real ( _yet_ !), secondly, Gabriel couldn’t see himself _seriously_ harming Jack despite all that Jack’s fuck ups had cost him (he had come close, though. _So close_ ), and thirdly, because Jack Morrison had already paid the ultimate price, not by Gabriel’s hands, but by fire and stupidity.

Gabriel took the mug and the remainder of its contents over to one of the, now wilting, plants (if Gabriel recalled correctly, Ana said it was a Bromeliaceae?), and dumped it. Probably not the best thing to do, but it looked thirsty anyway. If it died, no one would care. It will probably be thrown away anyway. Gabriel wasn’t going to adopt it nor its two siblings when the new Strike Commander was announced and razed this place. Jesse didn’t have enough responsibility to dress himself half the time let alone tend to a plant, Reinhardt was just as terrible with plants as Jesse (though it had more to do with being overbearing), and Torbjörn? Maybe…the guy still surprised Gabriel sometimes.

Who would the U.N. name as Strike Commander next? It was obvious that Golden Boy Jack was fit for the role only because he was so photogenic, so malleable, not wanting to bend straws or smash eggs or whatever the saying went. With him gone, it was up for grabs from any poor asshole the U.N. wanted to run into the ground. Ana was gone, Gabriel was too “volatile under pressure,” Reinhardt…was a possibility, if he could rein in his dramatics, turn down his voice. Still, terribly unlikely, his charming looks had faded from gold to silver over the years since the Crisis. Torbjörn, like Gabriel, was too obscure, harsh on the eyes, and too blunt. They would never appoint a foul mouthed four foot tall ass-hat the head of an international peace keeping organization.

At one point, though, it could have been Gabriel. He remembers being called in two years after the Crisis. The UN had let Overwatch run without much oversite during the cleanup efforts. However, political powers were beginning to reconsolidate, nations were beginning to question why this rag tag band of heroes were running through their borders as if they owned the place. Overwatch needed to settle down, to become more bureaucratic. They needed a leader to point where they would go to next. A leader to praise, a schmuck to crucify when things went badly. Gabriel had more or less been their leader since foundation, had been the one to direct their team, taking out legions of corrupted omnics and Bastions units, almost effortlessly. But they had chosen Morrison. The Golden Boy.

But…

…it could be him. He could lead them again, Jack would have wanted-

_Fuck you, you’re going soft in your middle age. They know how dangerous you can be._

Gabriel shrugged and chuckled to himself as he set the mug down. It’ll never happen.

He had been sitting here in the office of a dead man, staring off into space like some love dejected teen for nearly a half hour. Curiosity fueled by boredom (itself fueled by reminiscing, which in turn was field by grief) began to itch at Gabriel. What else does Jack keep in this desk? Even after all these years, all the time he spent here with Jack in both good times and bad, he never once considered rifling through Jack’s shit, dirtying it with his hands. He tried another with no luck. Gabriel examined each one, tracing his fingers around then, under the handles. No key holes? How do these work?

“Hey, Athena, you still there?”

“Yes, Commander Reyes?”

“How do these drawers work? How does Jack opens these things?”

“When the Strike Commander leaves this room, his personal effects are put under automatic lock down. When he is present, they unlock automatically.”

“Is that so? They lock down just like that?”

“Yes. To protect any important documents stores in them. To protect them from prying eyes.”

“Huh.”

She wouldn’t happen to be referring to Gabriel’s eyes, would she? And why didn’t Gabriel have this kind of stuff for his office? He was the guy who dealt with the secrets after all!

“Could, you, you know, open them for me? Like, with him gone and all?”

“Request Denied. Security Level 6 or higher is needed without Strike Commander Morrison present. Sorry.”

Gabriel, along with Ana, and Torbjörn, only had access levels of 4. Curiously, Jack only had access level 5. Whoever could get into them would be a UN figure, the brass that kept them all in check. None were available this early in the morning at this given location anyway.

The computer? A small console sat at the edge of the desk, blinking a soft green light for standby. Usually Jack didn’t deal with it since most of his time was used reviewing, approving, or rejecting requests in paper format (“ _Feels more real, can’t hack a piece of paper._ ”). The holo-screen on the wall and Athena were enough to keep Jack occupied. This particular terminal was also connected to the one Jack used in his quarters. But, again, he rarely used it.

But Gabriel tried anyway. He tapped the green button, waiting for a projection interface to pop up.

“Commander Reyes! I’m not going to humor you by relaying the same information to you over and over again. With the Strike Commander gone, you’re going to need a level 6 security clearance to get into much of anything here. If you keep making these attempts, I won’t hesitate to set off an alarm. However, I know you’re grieving. I can recognize that. I don’t want to do that to you. Its protocol, I can ignore it. For the moment.”

That harsh humanness in her voice meant her full attention, the same processing power she spread across the globe, was solely fixed upon Gabriel at this moment. He averted his gaze to the floor and could feel the heat on his cheeks rise up. More out of shame of being scolded by an AI like a child.

“I really am fucked up, aren’t I, Athena?”

“My calculations and scans show you’ve calmed down somewhat for the last 45 minutes, 32 seconds you’ve been in this room. You still meet the criteria for ‘grief’, though. You are ‘working on it’ as they say.”

“Yeah, okay.” Gabriel gets up from the desk. Powerman 5000 is playing now, a classic metal group he wasn’t too familiar with. He hadn’t really been listening since the music had come on.

“Athena?”

“Commander Reyes?”

“Could I sleep in here tonight? You won’t set off any alarms if I just…I don’t know, rest on the couch?”

“As long as you stop poking and prodding, you can be dormant in here as long as you need.”

“Okay. Thanks. You can turn off the music now.”

“Understood.”

Gabriel got up, walking around the desk and admired the room silently again. The room still smelled like Jack. It was good enough for Gabriel. Good enough to calm him, to be with him in some capacity, to sleep without nightmares of death. The sick feeling of drowning had passed. Had been gone for some time. It would be back, though. It takes years for it to go away. It hadn’t even been gone when Ana died. Does grief stack up? Was he going through a double grief?

The couch was a better bet for Gabriel than the chairs. It was long enough to accommodate himself, to stretch out with only his feet laying on the armrest.

Out of the corner of the eye, a flash of garish blue he hadn’t caught before came from under one of the chairs. The Strike Commander’s Overcoat. The coat Jack was mandated to wear for all of his public appearances. Gabriel knew Jack detested it. It weighed him down needlessly, made him larger than life. Gabriel picked it up. It felt both light and heavy. Gabriel placed it to his face and drew in the scent.

_Jack. I’m sorry. Fuck me, I’m so sorry!_

Gabriel gingerly sat himself on the couch, stretching himself out, and got comfortable. He twisted a little so he was on his side.

“Athena. Lock my personal quarters. Leave a message for whoever knocks at my door, tell them I am…. _’Grieving_ ". And could you get the lights and draw the shades?”

“Noted. I will put your quarters on lockdown until you wake up. Message of “He is grieving” will be relayed. Lights shutting down…..now. Shades closing tight…..now. Would you like any white noise or low mood lighting?”

The last bit confused Gabriel, was she trying to “lighten” his mood? He was too tired to question anything now. The burning sensation in his sinuses was getting worse.

“Nah, that’s fine. G’Night.”

The room was quiet and dark. Gabriel curled himself around the overcoat. He breathed through it, drinking in the familiar scent. He caressed it, feeling the soft material across his skin. The weight of it pressed into his face and chest. He closed his eyes. He knew what was coming, it had to come sooner or later.

He felt his breathing begin to quicken.

 _Jack_.

His sinuses began to really sting now, _fuck_!

 _My Jackie_!

His eyes began to water, hot as flame.

_My fucking soulmate, my heart!_

Gabriel’s chest began to hitch. His chest hurt.

_Why? Why, God, Why?!_

Gabriel began to cry for the first time in years. Low moaning sobs of a middle aged man filled the room.

It was at that moment when Athena decided it would be best to delete the footage she was mandated to record of Gabriel.

“I’m sorry, Commander Reyes”

He couldn’t hear her over the sounds of his sobs.

“I really am.”

It was 3:37 in the morning. It would be another hour, full of moaning, screaming, and begging, before Gabriel finally drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd but mostly readable. I might come back and edit a few things if I catch them.
> 
> The frustrating thing about writing characters who live in the future is any music you might think they would listen to would be "oldies" by their standard. Kudos to you if you could name the Swedish pop song without googling the lyrics.
> 
> Another Pre-Moira fanon I had initially adopted, that there had been some animosity between Gabriel and Angela. I tweaked the scene just a bit as to tone down Gabe's aggression towards her and more towards angels in general.


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